


Unremarkable

by orphan_account



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Atmospheric, Character Experimentation, Dialogue, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I still think it's nice, POV First Person, Ruvik's POV, Short Drabble, i was trying to do a character study, my high school brain did this, old stuff, written on the floor in the dark in the summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Some nights Ruvik stays up, holed up in a secure corner of Beacon's basement, and works. He's done this for quite some time. The supplies are fresher here and the setting is comforting in an odd way. But one night, he gets a visitor, and she's a little more than what he expected.





	Unremarkable

            “Hey,”

            The scalpel, once steady in my fingers, slipped. Another sample rendered useless without even a warning. No knock, an intrusion, and people wondered why I hated them.

            Her shoes were the expensive kind, the brand nurses always wear, because they made no noise on my polished floor. Soft-soled slip-ons, standard, unremarkable. She stopped close to my table, not close enough for me to see her, and just stood. Her silence was a completeness in itself, no coughing, sighing, or fidgeting. A nameless presence, both comforting and unnerving. Her patience was solid, unlike mine. Everything on this piece was ruined ever since she walked in, and so I sat without looking up, stillness to her quiet until my restlessness demanded I drop the instrument and turn to face her.

            She was like her shoes, standard. Short with average blond hair cut into a sharp bob, a bit heavy, hands clasped behind her back. Shifting her weight from leg to leg, she stared back at me as I stared at her, her blue eyes much more interesting than I thought they would be. Standard perhaps, but high quality, well worn, cracks in the soul from hard work.

            “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t hear you knock,”

            “You don’t have to do that,” her voice was sincere.

            “Excuse me?”

            “That courtesy. We both know I didn’t knock,”

            “Fine then. Why are you here? Staff isn’t allowed down in this area anymore,”

            “I was just curious,” she confessed, not a hint of worry or stress in her voice. With a habitual tick she unclasped her hands and pushed her hair behind her right ear twice.

            “You know what they say,” I stated, beginning to swivel back to my table.

            “I didn’t take you for one who likes clichés,”

            “Don’t judge a book--”

            “By its table of contents,” she finished. I paused and then glanced over my shoulder, not bothering to hide the wrinkle in my brow. “A table of contents simply divides, it doesn’t explain. Often the titles of each chapter are cryptic and relate to something you wouldn’t understand unless you read the book.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing, just...” Her posture snapped up, her eyes brightening as she donned a smile. “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I wanted to meet you,”

            I chuckled darkly. “Any particular reason why?”

            “You seem interesting. That and, I know you’re working on something special,” she said.

            Everything drained from me, mirth, curiosity, everything. I looked into her eyes with a signature kind of coldness, knowing that if she was telling the truth, she did not have long. My work was secret, more secret than the multiple policies of nations, more secret than the laws that govern laws. And what was she? Expendable, tiny, once again unremarkable. Right then, it would not have been difficult to kill her, save time. But instead I sat and watched her, waiting for our gazes to meet again.

            “Where did you hear that?” I asked, my voice coming out forced.

            “I eavesdropped,”

            “A dangerous occupation,”

            “Not any more dangerous than anything else, I suppose,” she paused. “But that was just a catalyst. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while now,”

            I narrowed my eyes but said nothing.

            “I want to see this project of yours,”

            “Really?” I questioned. Something must have flickered across my face because her features hardened as well, eyes going from intense to wary.

            “Perhaps the subject behind you,” she elaborated.

            “No,”

            “Why not?”

            “If I am to show you anything, it will be a much better specimen. But I doubt that you would choose to see one,” I taunted.

            “We all have blood on our hands,” came her reply, echoing in the brightness of the frigid fluorescent lights. I stopped, impressed and slightly worried. Shutting people out had left me invincible within my own mind, yet I had missed learning of the complexity of even the smallest societies, unknowingly assuming everyone else was only one of two polarities. By my own conviction I had assumed people could not be gray in their thoughts or actions. The initial image of this woman was of naiveté and weakness with an addition of stupid bravery. What could this woman know of blood, blood which I had been forced to swim in, blood which threatened to drown me each waking moment?

            “Will you show me?”

            Now it was a game, a challenge. I pressed my palms to my legs and stood from my seat, walking automatically to the steel door in the corner, not sparing a glance at the sacrifice. It did not matter how wise she was, how strong her will. Everyone would be broken eventually, some simply earlier than others.

            As she entered I waited for the screams, but her shoes stayed silent, no complaints about the noxious antiseptic. Against all odds she stood and studied her surroundings, lips pursed as if examining art. She did not waver. After a moment I joined her, standing to her left, watching her expression.

            “I always knew I was not a genius,” she murmured. “And I used to be bitter over that fact. But as I got older I realized that learning was not just a pastime for the gifted. There will always be people like you, those who excel in almost all things but fail utterly in one. Is it better,” she mused, “to be talented in many things but master of none than to devote all of your time to one objective?”

            “Incredible,”

            “Unnatural. That’s what everyone called me. Some sort of built in resistance to insanity. But I’ll tell you a secret: it was not something I was born with. I cultivated it because I knew I had to. I knew I would never be a genius, but I was determined to surround myself with them. And as you know, all genius begins with craziness,” she smiled and turned to me. “Tell me,” she commanded. “Tell me the function, the reason, the process. I want to know,”

            It was then, the sensation pressing against the shattered fragments of my psyche, that I knew I loved her, the incomparable hiding within the unremarkable.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, I wrote this quite a few years ago and since I'm working on What the Ends Mean I was looking through old files (instead of writing--go on, hate me). I remembered this, and I still really like it.


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